


Childcare for Mercenaries, Breaking and Entering in Urban Environments, and the Philosophical Implications of Separation

by cloud_five



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_five/pseuds/cloud_five
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a plague depopulates much of the world, former mercenary Barsad finds an orphaned child living on the streets. The boy accompanies him on a short journey to reunite with a man to whom Barsad owes his life, loyalty, and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty Homes and Stories' Bones

Night is falling toward the city, shrouding her people in a deceptive cloak of navy and charcoal. It is fascinating to Barsad, how men can think that night hides them: they commit crimes, drink, hurt their partners, and fuck in the darkness, as though such things will be hidden come the light of day. Barsad knows the shadows serve no one; he has learned this lesson better than most, though not as thoroughly as some. Well—at least one.

 

He is working at the lock of an abandoned building, quick callused fingers wielding his tools with precision. This part of the city is so abandoned and broken by disease that its derelicts are mostly unguarded, to serve as squats for the homeless or kingdoms for rats, broken ambitions reduced to rusting silent monoliths to richer days. This building, however, is mostly intact, quiet and solid and likely warm with insulation. Normally Barsad would not be so choosy; he would even prefer a dirtier place for its anonymity, its warning to anyone who would care: stay away. But the choice is no longer simply for him.

 

A sniffle at his back makes him pause in his work to cast a glance behind at the boy in a thick sweatshirt and ratty backpack, discreetly rubbing at his nose with his sleeve and looking guilty at interrupting Barsad. Barsad offers the warmest smile he can; trying to reassure the child that he is not displeased. But the smile is more of a grimace and the boy’s eyes dart away from Barsad’s—scared of adults, even those who mean him no harm and do not seek to use him. Barsad can hardly blame him.

 

“Adam,” he says. “If you would, I require the knife I gave you.”

 

The boy brightens a bit at the request and rummages in his backpack. Truthfully, Barsad could use his own knife, but he has found the best way to put Adam at ease is to give him a task, let him help, make him feel useful. He will allow himself to be taken care of, but only if he can contribute from time to time—otherwise the guilt creeps in, and Barsad, being no stranger to guilt, cannot bear to see it in Adam. The ten-year-old fights a smile as he passes Barsad the leather-handled combat knife by its sheath, handle first, as he was taught. Barsad nods his approval and uses the blade to jimmy the bolt lock the rest of the way. The door clicks and he pulls it open, replaces the knife in its sheath and gives it back to Adam, who slips it carefully in his bag before scurrying into the townhouse.

 

Barsad secures the door behind them, locking it and adding a few precautionary measures of his own. Adam waits dutifully near the entrance while Barsad secures the perimeter, checking each room and closet before doing a sweep of the attic. He finds nothing, but this does not mean he will let down his guard; because it is not simply his guard anymore, but theirs.

 

He and Adam bed down in the living room. Adam is enchanted with fireplaces, ever since Barsad built a fire for them both several weeks back and they huddled together in front of its glow. “I knew another,” Barsad had said as he showed Adam how to stoke the flames and the boy had expressed wonder at this simple skill, “who was even better at tending fires.”

 

Adam had nodded carefully. “Your friend you worked with,” he said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because he liked thinking about the fire, how it rises?”

 

“Perhaps you are thinking of the different sort of fire, which we have discussed…but yes. He took comfort in both kinds.” Barsad had gestured to the tangible flames in front of them, “The physical and the metaphor.”

 

Now, Barsad wonders if they can risk a fire. This room is hidden from the front windows, but there is always a chance that light will be perceived and investigated by either police or street men, and Barsad has no love of either. But the air is so cold, and will grow colder, and Adam is shivering, though he tries to hide it. The warmth and the risk--it seems they must have both tonight, for the child to rest. Barsad will simply have to keep watch, and forgo sleep. He casts Adam a conspiring look and produces a match, seemingly from the air. And it is worth the risk, to see the boy’s eyes light up at the simple sleight of hand, and already smaller hands are rummaging to the bottom of his bag for old newspaper as Barsad goes to pry loose wood from what corners of the house will yield it.

 

“First rule of fire safety,” he intones as he returns.

 

 Adam is holding up a water bottle, anticipating the ritual. “Have water close by!”

 

“Second?” Barsad continues, arranging the wood carefully in the fireplace, and the papers interspersed among the boards. Thankfully there is a metal poker left nearby.

 

“Clothes and blankets at least five feet away,” Adam says emphatically. Barsad has told him several stories, very few embellished, of men who grew too confident of themselves, and they have made appropriate impressions on him.

 

Barsad strikes the match. “And the last rule?”

 

Just this once, they do not have to go through the whole list. Adam looks him in the eye and Barsad is humbled by the seriousness he finds there, and the trust, however fleeting.  “The fire rises,” Adam recites, quiet, breaking the gaze and averting his eyes. “Remember its power always.”

Barsad swallows. “Yes,” he replies, and starts the fire. “Well said indeed.”

#

 

He avoids sleeping when he can, recognizing his limits of course but choosing to skirt their edges. His men used to say that he had a permanently tired look, and those who took this appearance as truth did not make the assumption twice, either because they had learned their lesson well enough or had died from it.

 

Whereas before he had eschewed sleep due to activity and his responsibilities as a commander, he now refuses it to escape the visions that haunt his dreams. Perhaps the excuse of responsibility in years past had always been just that—an excuse to avoid nightmares and memories of pain. Barsad does not think he has endured as much as many men he knows. Well—at least one. Ultimately though, in his most honest moments, he can realize the depths to which his psyche has been affected by what he has experienced. (Some days he thinks, given enough time, he should like to parse the damage in his own sanity brought on by war and suffering and a broken heart. The intellectual exercise appeals to him though he does not think he is up to the task of reexamining everything from an outsider’s perspective—he is too close. Perhaps if he found someone trustworthy…but if he is honest he realizes that that will never happen.)

 

His dreams lay his suffering raw before him, and it shames him, his pain. Men have endured more (at least one man has endured all). It is not meet to be so weak to his pain when others stand strong.

 

It helps, thinks Barsad as he drapes his blanket around Adam, to have something weaker than oneself to protect. The fire is lower now, but the room retains warmth better than Barsad had hoped and Adam has fallen asleep. The boy is understandably exhausted by their pace, how often they change location and their long hours outdoors. It is not an easy way to live, and if Barsad could see any other suitable option for the boy’s care he would choose it. But he is now in a unique position wherein Adam knows too much about Barsad for him to simply let the boy leave. Likely Adam would not breathe a word to anyone about the man who cared for him for months, but children are vulnerable and Barsad is not without enemies, both in law enforcement and among law breakers.

 

He is also in the unique position wherein he has become fond of the boy. Adam has been mistreated by others and often it shows but lately he is beginning to trust, and he responds to Barsad with understated warmth, now that he is sure that Barsad will not take advantage of him. An orphan of the fevers and sickness that have swept through the world and his life, Adam is not accustomed to trusting adults to stay with him or provide comfort, but he seems to rely on Barsad. Barsad, having never cared for a child before, is humbled by his trust and is always attempting to give him what he can, despite the circumstances. Surrounded by the dark and the creaking of the townhouse, Barsad can almost imagine continuing this way, teaching the boy until Adam can truly live his own life.

 

While Adam sleeps, Barsad checks their supplies, as well as his own equipment. The guns are broken down and cleaned, the knives carefully examined and sharpened. He takes stock of the medical kit, food and sundries. Adam will need heavier boots, now that winter seems to be here to stay (given what Barsad has experienced of frostbite, this is a top priority). They could be spotted at a clothing charity, if people are on the lookout for a runaway, and as a mature adult it would seem odd if Barsad went in alone for a pair of child-sized boots; but Barsad has ever been skilled at foraging and thinks he can obtain warm boots of reasonable quality with a careful search. (Another thing that fascinates Barsad about people—what they waste: there is so much to be found in what the citizens of this place deem refuse. If he himself were less fastidious he would make a study of it.)

 

A small noise causes him to still, but it is just Adam, shifting in sleep, moving unconsciously closer to the warmth of the fireplace. Barsad, after a moment, lays his jacket over Adam as well. It’s not just kindness or softness, he tells himself. If the boy were to fall seriously ill, it would be a concern, and even free clinics ask questions; but when Adam mumbles something that sounds like “Mom,” Barsad gives up on excuses. Heart twisting, he smooths Adam’s hair and murmurs, attempting comfort.

 

Abruptly a beeping tone comes from Barsad’s pack and his chest falls, rises, and clenches all at once. It feels as if he has been kicked in the stomach, but Barsad does not pause to examine the sensation. The sound repeats itself as he leaves Adam’s side, goes to his knapsack and plunges his arm in, all the way to the bottom, where he withdraws a small object in a waterproof bag, almost tearing the bag in his haste to get at the satellite messenger—the kind used by explorers of remote locations to send a brief text along with GPS coordinates to their loved ones—within the plastic. He disables the alarm, squinting at the shatterproof screen, at the coordinates and the single word that accompanies them.

_Come_.

 

Barsad stares for a moment, and then begins making preparations.

 

Adam wakes easily when Barsad touches his shoulder that morning, and blinks when Barsad places a pair of boots at his feet. “I know you like your old shoes,” Barsad acknowledges as he tears the packaging off a protein bar for Adam. “But these are sturdier, and warm.”

 

Blinking, Adam realizes that, in addition to going out to find boots, Barsad has already packed up their things before he woke him. “They’re great,” he says, lacing up his new footwear. “Did I…oversleep?” It doesn’t feel any later than usual.

 

“No,” Barsad confirms. “It is the usual time.” He passes Adam his breakfast and the boy obediently chews. He is staring at Barsad though, and Barsad wonders if he should confide in Adam, tell him the truth of why they are going further than usual today. _But if the worst should happen, if Adam is compromised, better he know nothing_ , says a part of Barsad, the part that led men in battle. Another voice in him protests, _he is not a soldier, but a child. He is dependent on you. You must repay his trust in kind_.

 

Adam stands as Barsad thinks, makes a slow circle of the room to test his new shoes, wiggling his toes and shifting his weight. “They’re heavy,” he says, hesitantly, as though he does not want to critique the gift; and Barsad smiles a bit, remembering a similar feeling when he put on his first pair of combat boots. Adam’s are not the same, made for winter wet, not battle, but he supposes the sentiment is the same.

 

“Yes, but you will grow accustomed to them. And I will get you new sneakers in spring, when they become too hot or cumbersome.” It’s a reckless promise, but it feels right to say, and he is rewarded with a smile. He hesitates. “Adam, today we are going to go somewhere a bit different. We will take a train, leave this city.”

 

“Leave?” Adam says. He is not disturbed by the idea, only curious. “Where are we going?” Adam chances, not really expecting an answer—Barsad never tells him where they are going.

 

But Barsad replies, “We are going to one of the ghost towns. It is opened,” he says, putting Adam’s fear of venturing into a quarantine zone to rest even before it is fully formed, “Only empty. We are meeting someone.”

 

Staring down at his new shoes in his oversize coat, Adam looks very small, his brow furrowed. Barsad is struck again by the protective, mothering instinct that has become a part of him since taking the child into his care; this honest, innocent but not naïve young person who relies on him. Barsad knew little enough of children, though he remembers vividly what it felt like to be one. He did not know how to parent, only to train, to teach men to be strong enough to follow them who they serve. He finds that parenting is almost the same, albeit with more reassurances on his part and a damning, beautiful love that takes root in his chest.

 

Adam is gazing at Barsad with a longing for confirmation of something he thinks. Barsad kneels, looking him in the eye. “You have something you wish to ask?”

 

Curiosity wins over hesitance, as is proper. “Are we meeting your friend? The one you tell me about sometimes?”

 

It is a remarkably astute question. Barsad’s chest twists again; he swallows. “Yes, Adam. We go to meet him today.”

 

“He’s not a good man. You said so.”

 

“Yes, child,” Barsad says, equal parts honesty and gravity. “He is not a good man. But neither am I a good man.”

 

He is shocked to his core by the arms that clench around him, the face buried in his jacket. “You are though,” Adam mumbles. Barsad does not know how to respond, and settles his grip around Adam’s shoulders, rubbing careful circles into his scapulae. After a beat, Adam pulls back a bit, nods once. “Let’s go find him?”

 

“Yes,” answers Barsad as he offers Adam the smaller backpack. “We shall go together.”

 

  


	2. Chapter 2

 

They have forged travel papers—Barsad’s were rendered by a professional, one of the best in the world, ascribing a different name and history to his face. Adam’s are less ironclad though Barsad purchased them at great expense, but travel authority rarely scrutinizes child documents if the requisite blood test results are clear, which they are for them both. Barsad, due to his status as a foreigner, is often questioned at checkpoints; but he is very good at putting people at ease and is rarely detained for any significant length of time. Adam is helpful on such occasions, calling Barsad his uncle and answering the authorities’ questions with a child’s innocence. “My mom was Uncle Ali’s sister,” he explains. “She was in Aqaba when the sickness… Uncle Ali takes care of me now. He’s the best uncle.”

 

It’s surprising, given how guileless Adam is. He’s not a talented liar, typically, but he lies well to keep them together. It never fails to make Barsad look at him in wonder when danger has passed.

 

They move through checkpoints with minimal fuss, several more than usual because they will be leaving the city; but Barsad projects harmlessness and Adam tells his story and both their lies are believed. Barsad purchases their tickets with the few bills he keeps in a hidden, watertight pocket of his bag for emergencies and they take their seats on the crowded, dirty train. It will take them a bit beyond where they need to go, to a checkpoint outside the ghost town Jordan. Adam, now that he is stationary and there are no guards to see him, is nervous, tapping the sides of his heavy boots together as his legs swing some inches above the ground. He holds tight to his backpack and looks out the window to his right (Barsad likes to keep himself between the boy and crowds; habit, he supposes, from guarding another’s back). The train is cold and there are many bodies in close proximity—it would be a lie to claim Barsad is not on guard as well, and he reproves himself: it is possible that Adam picked up on his watchfulness and mistook it for worry.

 

He catches the boy’s eye and reveals a coin he palmed moments earlier. The effect is such that he seems to have drawn it from the air and Adam relaxes a bit, smiling at the familiar but still fascinating trick. Barsad moves a second hand across Adam’s field of vision, vanishing the coin discreetly into his cuff, before opening his palm to reveal that it has been replaced with a small candy Barsad lifted from a vendor in the station. Adam’s weak smile evolves into a grin as Barsad presses the sweet into his hand, the boy’s eyes shining with amazement. Barsad winks, the rest of his expression placid, but Adam doesn’t mind that Barsad doesn’t always emote. He winks back, exaggerated and unpracticed, as the train begins to move.

Adam doesn’t sleep during the journey. Barsad encourages it but doesn’t really expect such a curious child to miss the chance to watch the countryside rush by the window. He thinks that Adam has probably been outside the city limits before, but the boy would have been quite young and likely does not remember it well. He is determined, it is obvious, to remember now. He looks at everything, or tries to—hills and grasslands slide past, the sun climbing higher in the sky, some few airplanes visible in the distance; abandoned towns and the cracked remnants of highways; rusting metal and glass all that remains of some structures; the tug and pull of wind among the leaves of trees and the foam of clouds overhead. From time to time, Adam glances at Barsad; sometimes just to reassure himself of Barsad’s presence; other times his eyes are wide, expression clearly conveying _did you see that_?! Every time his eyes widen, Barsad nods steadily, or follows Adam’s line of vision if he has not seen what the boy finds fascinating. Their exchanges are silent, for the most part, made up of nods and wonderment and a small hand gripping at Barsad’s sleeve, _did you see that_?!

The train stops at Jordana, a satellite mining town near the original Jordan township. Only a few passengers disembark with Adam and Barsad—young men with no families, looking for work in the mines. Barsad looks them over but none are dangerous enough to offer them significant trouble. Though Barsad knows well that deprived men can be the most dangerous of all, such can be sloppy in their desperation, easily overcome with a cooler head and any amount of skill and Barsad has both to spare. These men are only looking for work, though—not yet desperate enough to be rabid—so there is no danger as far as Barsad and Adam are concerned.

They ease through Jordana like shadows; should they stay long in such a small place, they will be noticed and questioned; but on the move, they are less likely to attract attention. The only time they stop is to eat at a small tavern on the edge of the town, where the waitress stares at Barsad with narrowed eyes but gives them both extra food without charging them for it.

It is early afternoon when they slip away from Jordana and Barsad is glad; this will give them plenty of time to reach the ghost town and make the rendezvous point. The air is not so cold now that the sun is overhead and they are walking briskly down the neglected dirt roads that connect the mining village to its originator. Adam is in good spirits, moving from plant to rock to insect with wonder writ large on his features. The forest has benefitted from the depopulation of this area: it is thriving, trees that would be harvested allowed to stand, no noise pollution or the smell of industry from the nearby once-town. Adam is clearly in awe of the trees and the leaves underneath his feet, the cinnamon smell of wood rot and the scuffling sound of animals retreating. The interplay of sunlight on the reddening leaves is nothing short of beautiful, and when the wind tosses them they look like flame.

Barsad reflects that it is best for children to experience nature; that it always seems to restore something vital in the human soul, to be connected to the earth and sky. It is simply more noticeable in Adam, a child of the city, to whom nature was comprised of temperature and rain on the concrete with squirrels, pigeons, feral cats and lapdogs for animal life. He stands a little straighter in the woods, seems bolder than he was in the city, a child lost in a concrete wasteland filled with uncaring millions. Barsad is suddenly fiercely glad he could share this bit of the earth with Adam.

As they walk, Barsad names plants, listing their dangers or uses, which to avoid and which to cherish, and soon Adam is pointing at the different plants, looking to Barsad for answers; Barsad, though not entirely familiar with this environment, does his best. “That is a White Milksap Mushroom; it is good for eating. Guelder Rose—its bark is a remedy for muscle cramps and asthma. The berries were used for ink. Ah,” he says when Adam stops by a pale tree, fingers stroking curiously over the paperlike surface. “You have found a useful one. That is a White Birch: its bark burns even when it is wet.”

“Wow,” breathes Adam, who has struggled with soaked kindling often enough to be impressed. “Should we take some?”

“Strip only the outermost pieces; we do not want to harm the tree,” Barsad instructs as Adam pulls out his knife. The boy is careful, his movements considered, and soon they have plenty. Adam stores it gravely in his backpack and Barsad nods. “We are almost to Jordan; we will rest when we are within the city limits.” They resume their walk. Adam sticks closer to Barsad; his comments have unintentionally reminded the boy that they are somewhere unfamiliar. Adam’s fingers find the hem of Barsad’s jacket and Barsad’s chest tightens. The bright parental impulse wells up in him again and he wants to hold the boy close. He might be mistaking pain for something greater, but he does not care. With Adam he has no desire to separate the two. The worry and the love will exist side by side.

They walk into Jordan as they walked out of the city, Barsad first, eyes flicking for any sign of danger, knife never far up his sleeve, Adam a little behind, looking around and at Barsad for a clue as to their destination. Jordan was a large town; it likely bustled with activity in its prime; but no longer. The place lives ups to its title, ghost town. Though the barbed wire and quarantine notices have been removed, the town was so ruined by sickness that there was no one to return once the ban was lifted. Such is the case in many places, Barsad knows. When the plague was cured, those still alive gathered together in the cities, seeking comfort in the teeming mass, so uncommon. For all the overcrowding in some cities, the vast majority of the world and plague affected areas in particular are empty. Too much superstition hovers over the quarantine zones for people to relocate just yet.

Barsad checks his maps as they rest on steps leading to a visitor’s center, locked tight but spray painted with a bright orange all-clear symbol. Afternoon is progressing quickly; the days grow shorter. He feeds Adam what he saved from the restaurant in Jordana and watches him eat everything. “We have only a little farther to go,” he explains to the boy, pointing to their route on the map. Adam moves closer to get a better look. “We will meet him here, a home next to the library.” He stands and helps Adam up.

It is fitting, the location. Barsad was always focused on study; his men often remarked that he preferred books to people, and that was correct; but his leader positively devoured books like other men drank fine wine: with reverence for something rare, something to be savored and not forgotten.

“He did not learn to read until he was a grown man,” Barsad tells Adam as they walk. “He knew some things, symbols used in his childhood, but books…they are precious to him. He finds reading a book to be a luxurious way to build his mind, and always prefers to be near places with access to them if he can. Those who knew him well respected this. We would often pick locations adjacent to libraries if our situation would allow for it. Once we hid above a bookstore for days and I almost thought we would not leave.” Adam is listening closely, brow furrowed in curiosity. Barsad does not often reminisce; most of the details of his life are inappropriate for children, best forgotten. Adam respects this, but it does not stop the boy from being interested when such things are brought up. But Barsad, not knowing what else to say, falls silent as they continue the last leg of their walk. Often the conversations about his “friend” (as Adam puts it) end in this way. Too many memories to sort through, except the brightest flashes.

They are approaching the edge of downtown, moving into a more residential area. A tree heavy with apples stands in the center of a park. Barsad climbs it, dropping the deeply red fruit to Adam, who chews on one and fills a pocket of Barsad’s backpack with the rest. “Just one for your dessert right now,” Barsad reminds Adam, mindful of the boy’s stomach. The boy nods assent and they continue. Night is falling fast.

The town is still beautiful despite, or maybe because of, its harsh abandoned edge. Sagging houses are now decorated with vines, peeling paint and rusting metal. Jordan must have been ravaged quickly, for some things are still in place, signs of life taken too quickly to clear away: flyers advertising garage sales still flutter against telephone poles; cars are still in a few driveways; children’s toys are scattered on front lawns. Adam pauses at these, eyes fixed on a pink rocking horse tilted on its side. Barsad watches him; Adam’s throat works a little. “I used to have one of those,” he half-whispers. “It was blue.”

Barsad is spared from replying by a snarl from behind them. He turns, gun in his hand as fast as thought. A feral dog, eyes crazed, stands across the street from them. One of its paws is lifted, back arched and hair stiff on its neck. It’s a large breed of canine; Barsad is not familiar with which. It lists slightly to one side as it moves closer and Barsad can tell that even if the creature were friendly, it would be beyond saving. In less than a second, he makes his decision. Barsad hates to use a gun in this place—too noisy—and perhaps if he were alone he would not. A knife to the throat would end the dog’s life as assuredly as a bullet, but less cleanly, with more risk of injury. The gun will kill it fast, spare Adam from having to see the dog in its death throes for too long, and the noise will warn away any other feral animals close by.

In the next moment the dog moves forward, suddenly sprinting and Barsad sights down the barrel, breathes through Adam’s small gasp, and takes his shot. The blast balloons outward, noise pushing into adjacent neighborhoods and the dog falls like a puppet with its strings cut, bullet hole between its eyes; an easy kill. It twitches perhaps once and is gone, blood spreading onto the broken concrete.

Barsad can hear Adam breathing as he flicks on the safety and replaces the gun in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Wind blows steadily through their hair, dusting Adam’s cheekbones with the slightly wavy strands. After a moment, Barsad looks at him. “You understand why I had to kill it.”

Adam is blinking rapidly, looking from the dog to Barsad before he hears the question in Barsad’s statement. “It—it was sick.”

“Yes.”

“It wouldn’t have run if you tried to scare it away.” Adam is still staring at the blood leaking from the dog’s wound.

The boy is perceptive. “That is so.”

“It happened so fast,” murmurs Adam, moving to Barsad’s side, touching the hem of his jacket and biting his lip His eyes ask permission; and Barsad enfolds him in a slow but fierce hug, pressing his lips to the top of Adam’s head. As a rule, he avoids touching Adam too often because he suspects that at least one foul individual sought to use him poorly; whether or not Adam was actually harmed Barsad does not know but only touches Adam with his express consent—an embrace is almost unheard of, though perhaps Adam craves it more than he thought. He can read Adam well enough now to generally know when the child needs physical reassurance but he keeps such gestures rare; he is not a man who is skilled at comfort.

“It is not in pain anymore,” Barsad finally says into the softness of Adam’s hair. “Perhaps it is with its family.”

A nod against his side, “Thank you,” the boy whispers.

Barsad taps another kiss onto Adam’s hair, selfishly, before ending the hug, taking his hand and leading him away from the body. Night is falling and the dark envelops them quickly.

Adam does not release his hand as they go on, stopping once to look at the stars. Adam cannot remember ever seeing so many and Barsad is happy to look after so many months in the light-polluted city. The Milky Way is visible, a tapestry of light and stars and the gaseous proof of eternity. Barsad, wishing to distract Adam from his tiredness, talks as they walk on. “A Hungarian folktale says that the Milky Way is the path the warrior Csaba will take to rescue his people if they are threatened. It is _Hadak Útja_ , the Road of the Armies. The stars are sparks from horseshoes.”

“That’s a cool story,” Adam says, genuine even as he yawns.

“We are almost there.”

Scarcely half an hour passes before they stand in front of the Jordan Regional Library. Adam stares at its darkened windows. “How long has it been since you saw him?”

There is no need to specify who Adam speaks of. Barsad shuts his eyes. “A little over twenty months,” he answers, not saying _six hundred and eighteen days_.


End file.
